


Interlude: 1992

by Not_You



Series: A Nest Of Snakes [2]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - we can have nice things sometimes, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Gen, Jealousy, M/M, Pre-Poly, Sharing a Bed, jolene jolene i'm begging of you please don't take my man, ocelot is a pile of burning truck tires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-20 05:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13140339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: Mom and Uncle Ocelot didn't always get along.





	Interlude: 1992

Eva doesn't need to switch on the light to know that she isn't alone in the room. Several little cues of scent and sound and simple _presence_ let her know that it's Ocelot lurking in the dark. For all the wetwork he's done, Eva really has nothing against him. She recognizes another finely-honed operative, even if his inevitable quirks are more theatrical than most people's. The MSF and the Diamond Dogs are both legendary, and as she gets closer to Jack she has done her best not to alienate his best friend for life and brother in arms. She has apparently failed, because she can smell the metal of the gun he's holding on her, and just barely hear his breathing in the dark when he's usually completely silent.

"Ocelot," she says, "you know that shooting me here and now would be counterproductive. Whatever I've done, let's talk about it like adults." He has to be at least thirty-three, but she's starting to learn that a predilection for older men isn't going to save her from childish bullshit.

"Whatever you've done," he hisses, and she recognizes the tone in his voice. She probably really should know, and as she skims through the most likely answers she hears another tiny sound that derails everything.

"...Are you _crying_?"

"No!" he snaps, and then sniffles, and Christ, he sounds about twelve years old. 

She sighs. "Come on, I have a good bottle of wine." 

Now he'll either shoot her or he won't, so she slips out of her shoes and turns on the light. Ocelot holsters his guns, clearly deeply irritated to be doing so. He looks like shit, and it's only more obvious because he's always such a dapper bastard, in his weird cowboy way. His eyes are bloodshot, his face is stubbly, and it looks like his clothes have been slept in more than once. He'll never stop being an incredibly dangerous person, but right now he's just pathetic.

"Take your boots off, I don't want to hear from management about the carpet," she says, and pads into the kitchenette, pulling the bottle out of a cupboard. Ocelot mutters something extremely rude in Russian, but slides out of his boots, setting them and their stupid spurs beside her high heels. He slinks over to the table and sits down, and Eva takes the other chair, working the corkscrew into place. "I want you to know," she says, pausing to curse and line the point up better, "that I respect you. I've always admired the Diamond Dogs, and I'm glad Jack has someone so loyal, and, if I may say so, underhanded and terrible in all the ways he isn't. That's important."

Ocelot stares at her for a long moment, and then says, Russian accent thick with emotion, "I am going to fucking _castrate_ him," and sniffles again, yanking off one glove to scrub the heel of his hand over his eyes.

"...He never said you _weren't_ lovers," Eva offers, "he just doesn't want to talk about you behind your back."

Ocelot snarls, but doesn't leap up to enact his plan, so Eva concentrates on getting the cork out. It's difficult, but it finally comes free, a little of the wine splashing onto her hand. She yelps, and then mutters, "waste not, want not," and laps it up, setting the bottle on the table. Whatever else happens, at least the wine is worth what she paid for it.

"I think there are some plastic cups in the bathroom," she says, and Ocelot stands up quickly and sweeps over to get them. He comes back with two, setting them on the table with vengeful strength. Eva thanks him and pours generously. "This is a very good Syrah," she tells him, "I hope you appreciate it." Ocelot just grumbles and doesn't say anything intelligible, but he does gently agitate his plastic cup and take a sniff and a delicate sip, even if she can tell he's more in the mood to guzzle bad vodka. Eva takes her own taste, letting the silence spin out as she savors the wine.

"We argued over you," Ocelot mutters at last, "and we almost never argue." He looks up from his glass, and even bloodshot his eyes really are incredible, the clearest and coldest grey Eva has ever seen. "He trusts you," he says, and it sounds like the thought has been haunting him for some time. Eva tries to ignore the stupid, warm glow it gives her to think that it might actually be true. She isn't a good person, but Jack makes her want to be one. He probably has a similar effect on poor Ocelot. "There have always been women and I've never minded them because they didn't really matter. You do." He sighs. "I mean, they _mattered_ , but just the way any comrade does."

"Would you like something to hold that down?" she asks, and when he doesn't even seem to hear her, she gets up and finds some bread and cheese, slicing both as Ocelot grumbles to himself and slowly but surely siphons down his wine. She sets some food in front of him and takes her place across from him again with her own share. "I care about Jack a lot," she says, and can feel herself flushing slightly. She blames the wine, and keeps going. "You've known him for most of my life, and I don't want to get in the way of that. I know I can't ask you to trust me, that's in short supply for people like us, but don't storm off. You need to be close to Jack to watch me."

"A truce doesn't mean I like you," he says, and Eva laughs.

"Of course not." She smiles. "I'm sure you've heard this before, but you remind me of a cat."

"...I don't get that as often as you might think," he mutters, and mechanically eats some of the bread. It's a nice gesture, proving that he knows she has the sense not to poison him.

"He does talk about you, you know," Eva says, as gently as she can.

"Ever call you by my name when he's fucking you?" Ocelot growls, and she laughs.

"He's too much of a gentleman for that, he doesn't say anyone's name." This isn't entirely true, but it's quite close, and she can see a hint of cautious pleasure in Ocelot's face. "When we're _not_ fucking, he's thinking of you, talking about you, remembering something he needed to ask you, or telling stories with you in them. You're like a part of him, and I'm not sure how much I could interfere with that if I even wanted to." So there's no need for this juvenile crap, she doesn't say. Ocelot is maybe sharp enough to hear it anyway, but he's also exhausted and already slightly drunk. A good red on an empty stomach is insidious.

"So I'm the dog he had before he met you?"

"...Kind of, yeah," she says, as gently as she can. He doesn't seem offended, so she goes on, "And if that's the case, remember that I like dogs."

He snorts, and drains his plastic cup, pausing for a moment because it really is a good Syrah. "Somehow I don't think you want to pet me," he says, and she laughs.

"I might," she says, and tops her own glass off, giving Ocelot just another splash because it's her wine and he probably can't soak up much more without disaster, anyway.

"You know women don't interest me much," he says, trying to sneer but unable to put any real heat into it.

"I know. You and Jack are both extremely resistant to my wiles, and if I'm going to be honest, that may be as much as twenty-five percent of the fun."

Ocelot takes a long pull from his glass, a faint flush making his haggard face look a little better. He pauses again, really paying attention to the aftertaste in a way that makes her feel positively fond. He takes another sip, and then sighs, scrubbing his bare hand across his eyes again. Eva lets the silence be, appreciating her own wine.

"You are a hateful cow," Ocelot says at last, carefully enunciating each word, "but a very sharp one."

"Thank you," Eva says, and drains her glass at last, pouring a second one. "You look like shit. Do you think you could take a shower without falling over and cracking your skull?"

"Only one way to find out," Ocelot drawls in some kind of Clint Eastwood impression, and uses the table for support as he carefully stands up and then makes his way to the bathroom. 

He's steady on his feet, but in the intent way of someone who realizes that unsteadiness is a very real possibility. Eva listens to the click of the door and then the sound of running water. She doesn't hear any alarming noises, and takes her time over her wine. She has enough time that she starts to wonder if he has managed to kill himself in some inaudible way, or if he's waiting for her to come investigate to ambush her in the steam and kill her after all. The latter possibility seems like the more remote one, just because Jack would know it was him. Just when she's about to risk it, the door opens and Ocelot emerges on a cloud of steam. He looks pretty good in the hotel's bathrobe, in a feline, irritable way.

"May I have your couch for a few hours?" he asks.

"The couch will cripple you, share the bed," she says, and divides the last dregs of the bottle between their plastic cups.

"...If you insist," Ocelot mutters, and then savors the last of the wine in silence. He throws away the cups while Eva goes into the bathroom for her own ablutions. She sleeps in a nightgown edged with antique lace when she has a choice, and slides into this one before she leaves the bathroom, switching off lights as she goes. The bedside lamp is on, and Ocelot is curled up on the far side with his back to her. Eva slides into the available space and sighs, stretching her arms over her head and then reaching for the lamp.

"You need this for anything?" she asks, and she can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

"I'm not afraid of the dark," he grumbles, and she switches off the lamp.

Even with all the evening's excitement, the wine is working. Ocelot slips under first, so much more exhausted. She can feel the tension in his body as he tries to hold on, but at last his muscles go completely lax and he makes a weird little noise in his throat, a bit like a disgruntled housecat. Jack has mentioned that Ocelot refuses to believe that he ever snores, and she smiles to hear some quiet, almost delicate snorting as he settles down into the pillows. Actually falling asleep next to this maniac is a gesture of profound trust in Jack, and she hopes he appreciates it. If he ever finds out. Ocelot isn't the type to tell him, and Eva isn't sure she'll have any reason to.

More than anything, Eva is expecting to wake up alone. She assumes Ocelot will slink away in the first light of dawn like his namesake, good enough to keep even her taut senses from picking it up. Instead, she wakes up to a cascade of interesting sensations. The engulfing warmth of being sleep-cuddled, the gentle pressure of morning wood against the back of her thigh, the faint personal scent that lets her know that it's Ocelot, and the casual grip of one elegant hand on her right breast. The unavoidable pleasure in it rolls over into anger and then to amusement as she realizes that he's still breathing too slowly to actually be awake. Even Ocelot probably can't keep his heart rate down like this while conscious, and he proves it by the sudden uptick as he shifts his legs and absently squeezes, coming awake slowly at first and then much faster as Eva laughs.

"Jack said you were cuddly," she says, and there's a flurry of motion and a draft of cold air as Ocelot scrambles out of bed.

"Bitch!" he hisses, and she can tell he's upset by how uncreative that is.

"Sleep-groper," she counters, and he makes a deeply irritated noise as he yanks his pants on under the robe.

"My poor hand placement means nothing," he growls, and then pauses, making a truly hilarious face. "My mouth tastes like a dog shit in it."

"That's what happens when you drink red wine and don't brush your teeth," Eva says, and sighs. "You may hate me, Ocelot," she says, "but I don't hate you. Can we at least work with that?" For Jack, she doesn't add, but she can see it land anyway.

"...Yes," Ocelot growls, dropping the robe and scrambling into the rest of his clothes before he stalks into the other room. 

Eva is expecting him to disappear, but instead she hears the sounds of coffee being made. By the time she's dressed, she comes out to find Ocelot sitting at the table and glaring at her over the rim of one anonymous hotel mug, the other waiting for her. Eva pours carefully, taking her time over it and getting the cream and sugar that Ocelot apparently has no use for. She can feel him watching her as she prepares her cup, and is careful not to look up for a while.

"Thank you, by the way," she says, and he makes a little puffing sound of amusement.

"You're right welcome, li'l lady," he drawls, his actually very good southwestern U.S. accent laced with venomous sweetness. 

Eva smiles. "Jack says you were nineteen when he met you. I bet you were just _adorable_."

"And how old are you now?"

"You'd ask a lady that?" she coos, and he rolls his eyes, looking so disgusted that it's all she can do not to laugh.


End file.
